I watched as the two brothers cleared the table while their father was sent to the backyard to start a bonfire, where we’re all sitting around now, chatting. There’s a blanket in my lap and a goofy smile on my face.

This family feels like home.

“No one is driving home tonight—you’re all drunk.” Mrs. Wallace announces, cleaning up the graham crackers and chocolate from the s’mores we’d roasted earlier.

“Mom, I had one beer,” Tripp insists, holding up two fingers and rising from his spot by the fire. “One.”

Genevieve nods her dismissal. “Fine Tripp, you can go.” She lets him off the hook, but not her other son. “Trace, I insist the two of you stay over..”

“Mom, it’s okay. I didn’t drink that much either.”

It’s true. Like his brother, he’s had only two beers, tops, in the course of the entire evening. Plus, I can drive if I have to.

“You shouldn’t be drinking at all and driving Hollis home. I raised you better than that.”

He stares in disbelief, and I’ll admit, her trying to get us to stay is farfetched. A ploy we can all see straight through.

Trace tries again to talk some sense into her. “Hollis has to work tomorrow.”

“Do you, dear?”

I rack my brain for an excuse, but the truth is, I don’t have to go into the office tomorrow—not if I don’t want to. And since I have my laptop in the car, I could technically work on the way home. Plus, I hate lying, and we’ve been doing it all night.

“I…” I stare into the fire, the blazing orange flames calming and hypnotic. “I mean…”

“I’m fine, Mom. I’m fine.”

“Trace Edward, what did I just say?”

“That’s not my middle name.” He politely reminds her. “That’s Tripp’s middle name.”

“Stop arguing with your mother,” says his father.

Bonfire snacks in hand, she walks off, and I can barely stifle the laughter I’ve been holding in during the bickering—gazing off into the yard, toward the tree line illuminated by the bright moon, I finally laugh out loud.

“What’s so damn funny?” Buzz snaps at me from his Adirondack chair.

“You.”

He makes a sound in his chest, but has nothing more to say.

“She plays all of y’all like a fiddle. It’s hilarious.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s trying to trap us here, so we spend more time together.”

“That makes no sense—she thinks we’re dating.”

I snort. “Oh please, she’s not an idiot. Mothers weren’t born yesterday. She must have sensed that we’re not that close and she’s trying to make us close by forcing us together. Here.”

“My mother is a saint—she would never do that.”

“Um—do you honestly believe that lie coming out of your mouth? Your mom is no saint. She is the puppet master, and the three of you men dance like marionettes.”

“I’m a grown damn man—my mother cannot tell me what to do.”

“Okay.”

“She can’t.”

“I said, okay.”

“Right, but you don’t believe me. You’re mocking me on the inside. I can feel it.”

I nod, because he’s correct. “Then go in there and tell her we’re not staying, you big baby.”

Silence.

More silence.

The sound of a car driving down a gravel road in the distance.

An owl hooting.

More silence.

“Welp. Looks like we’re spending the night.”

I’m dying—can barely contain my laughter.

“I hate you so much right now,” he whispers.

“No you don’t,” I whisper back, because he doesn’t.

Not even a little…

11

Trace

“This bed is tiny.” Hollis is standing at the foot of my childhood bed—a full-slash-queen, sort of, the length of which I just barely fit on. The width? Just comfortable enough that I could spread out any way I wanted to.

My bedroom wasn’t big enough for anything larger growing up. This was the bed we had, and this is what my parents put in their new guest room when they moved, both of them too frugal to upgrade the furniture along with their new house. Some of my trophies are even on the wall in this room, for decoration, and I suspect if I went into the other guest bedroom, I would find Tripp’s bed and Tripp’s trophies lining the bookshelf, just like mine are.

Kind of weird. Kind of cute.

I love my mom. She’s adorable.

“Are you a size-ist, Hollis? Bigger is not always better.”

“When it comes to beds, it is.” She sits on the mattress, bouncing up and down a few times, testing the springs, hands running over the light gray fabric of a quilt I don’t recognize—definitely new. “Do you even fit in this thing?”

“Barely. We’ll both have to squeeze—it will be like playing Twister.” Which I’ve been known to dominate.

She sharply glances up, unamused. “Oh no—no. No way we are sharing a bed this small. I don’t trust you. No.”

“Say no one more time.” I throw my hands up innocently. “I won’t touch you with these, I promise.”

“I don’t want you touching me with anything else, either.”

Huh. She must be talking about my penis. “No funny business. Besides, I don’t trust my mom not to be listening for any baby-making sounds. That woman is seriously desperate for grandkids.”